


Theory of Relativity

by CamsthiSky



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst, Dick Grayson is Robin, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sporadic Updates, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 08:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11985891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamsthiSky/pseuds/CamsthiSky
Summary: In which Dick Grayson gets de-aged and everybody freaks out





	Theory of Relativity

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so let me just start off by saying that, yes, this is going to be more than one chapter long. I'm thinking about five or six. The only thing is, updates are going to be sporadic because of Teach Me to Dream, I just really wanted to get this story out because of a prompt I received on tumblr asking for this specific story. Since I already had this written I figured I would post it.
> 
> Thanks to @laquilasse on tumblr for helping with (and inspiring) this story.

When Dick wakes up cradled in Bruce’s lap, he immediately knows that _something’s_ wrong. One, Dick doesn’t remember ever leaving the manor after falling asleep last night. It had been a school night and he’d already used up his weeknight patrols for the rest of the month.

The second is that he isn’t wearing anything. He’s wrapped up in a big leather jacket like it’s a blanket or something, and it dwarfs him so spectacularly. He’s small for his age, sure, but this is ridiculous. Only his knees down are bared to the cold—plus the parts of his face that aren’t smooshed into a shoulder or covered up by the jacket collar. And even then, it’s not too cold.

He doesn’t know what’s going on but he’s _sure_ that this is Bruce who’s holding him—Batman, really. But he doesn’t think there’s much of a difference.

The way Bruce holds him is familiar, arms wrapped around Dick tight, but not too tight, like he’s not completely sure of his grip. The Kevlar armor plating and the cape under Dick’s cheek, the rough fabric of gloves as Bruce’s fingers card through his hair, the familiar rumble of the Batmobile humming from underneath them. This is Bruce, of that Dick has no doubt.

“He’s too quiet,” a voice says, and it’s low and soft, but Dick’s sure he’s never heard it before. “I don’t like it.”

It’s weird, because Dick thinks it’s coming from the driver’s seat. Since when did Batman let anybody but Robin get into the Batmobile? It’s only supposed to be Bruce and Alfred and Dick. Not even Uncle Clark is allowed to touch the Batmobile.

“He’s unconscious,” Bruce lectures, his voice maybe a touch deeper and gruffer than Dick is expecting, but it could just be Dick’s imagination. There’s a pause, and then Bruce huffs an exasperated breath. “Or are you?”

 _Busted,_ Dick think and he peels his eyes open. He doesn’t move his head from Bruce’s shoulder, though, just pulls the leather jacket tighter around him and pushes his face into the crook of Bruce’s armored neck. Bruce’s arms automatically tighten around him.

It’s only then that Dick asks, “How’d you know I was awake?”

“You know exactly how,” Bruce says, but it sounds nothing like when Bruce had said it as a joke the other day over a cup of hot chocolate. It sounds all growly an intimidating. It doesn’t—It doesn’t really sound like Bruce.

Dick frowns, choosing to file that piece of information away for later. He has more questions, after all. “Why aren’t I wearing any clothes?”

Bruce pauses. Dick can’t see what he looks like, so he can’t guess what he’s thinking. Probably wouldn’t be able to with the cowl on anyways. He _can_ , however, see the stranger in the front seat, the one with the domino mask that looks like he wants to be anywhere else but here. Yeah, Dick can see him, and he thinks that this guy has to be on the same level of trust as _Alfred_ to be sitting there, and that’s when Dick _knows_ something is up.

Bruce doesn’t have _anybody_ that he trusts more than Alfred. Dick doesn’t even think _he_ makes the cut. Close, sure, but is _Dick_ driving the Batmobile? Bruce probably wouldn’t even let him _sit_ behind the steering wheel.

But the stranger, even with the mask on Dick can tell the guy’s shooting furtive glances at Bruce every so often. More and more the longer Bruce stays silent. They both know something, and neither of them are inclined to spill. Great.

So, even though he’s frustrated about it, Dick moves on. There’s no getting an answer out of Batman without a lot of hard work, and Dick’s not really feeling up to prying Bruce’ secrets out of him at the moment.

Instead, he says, “Fine. Then who is _he?”_

The stranger’s face twists up strangely, like he hadn’t been expecting Dick to say that, and honestly, Dick’s just about as confused as he can get. The stranger shoots Bruce another look, and then his gaze drops down to meet Dick’s from behind the mask.

Dick makes sure to meet the white lenses evenly, having enough experiences with masks to figure out where the guy’s eyes are. Besides, he’s already huddled in what’s probably this stranger’s jacket, looking like a little kid. There’s no way he’s going to show any _more_ weakness in front of someone he doesn’t know. Even if Bruce seems to trust him.

“You don’t know me?” the stranger asks, tone matching his expression.

“No,” Dick says honestly, and he feels it when Bruce heaves a sigh.

“Of _course_ you don’t. Lucky you, then, I guess,” the stranger snarls. “Everybody’s just looking for an excuse to forget I exi—”

 _“Red Hood,”_ Bruce snaps, and the stranger snaps his mouth shut. Dick tries not to flinch at the shapr tone, and he succeeds, but his limbs lock up. He freezes. Because the last time Dick had heard that tone hadn’t been a pleasant experience, and it had led to the biggest argument Dick had had since coming to the manor.

Bruce catches on quick, but the stranger catches on even quicker. A sharp, mirthless laugh leaves his lips, and he gives Dick a sneer. “Well, that was a surprise. Didn’t think that the Golden Boy would ever be afraid of _Batman.”_

“I’m not afraid of Batman!” Dick protests, sitting up straight, even as his cheeks flush with anger. Bruce’s arms never leave him, but they do pull him in closer so that Dick’s back is up against Bruce’s chest. If he were afraid of Bruce, he would never even let Bruce _near_ him. “What do you know?!”

“I know a lot,” the stranger says as they leave the city behind them, and he doesn’t sound like he’s joking. “I know that Batman’s actually Bruce Wayne. I know that _you’re_ Dick Grayson. I know that being Robin get you fucking _killed.”_

_“Jason!”_

“How would you know anything about being Robin?!” Dick yells over Bruce’s reprimand.

“I’ve _been_ Robin, kid.”

Dick sucks in a sharp breath, eyes burning and a tightness in his chest that doesn’t make much sense. That can’t be right. He’d made a mistake before, yes, but _Dick’s_ Robin. He’s the only one that’s ever been and ever will be Robin.

 _“I’m_ Robin,” Dick insists, because it’s _his_ name, _his_ colors, and Batman is _his_ partner, and the stranger has to be lying. Trying to get under his skin or something. He turns to Bruce, who watches them both silently. Dick demands, “Why is he even here anyways?”

“Bruce needed my help,” the stranger sneers. “And you’re both lucky I was there or we’d have _two_ incompetent rich kids.”

“Yeah?” Dick asks, because that’s another thing. “And how do you even know our identities?’

The stranger snorts. “Told you, kid. I’ve been Robin. Bruce adopted me.”

That _something_ is back again, telling him that whatever’s going on it’s so, so wrong. And Dick swallows past the lump in his throat. Because Bruce _wouldn’t._ He wouldn’t adopt anybody else. He hadn’t even been able to adopt Dick. And besides, this guy has to be in his late teens, or maybe even in his twenties. The stranger is lying.

And so, Dick tells him that, and he makes sure his tone is ice cold. “You’re a liar, you know?” Dick seethes. “I’m Robin and I’m the only one Bruce has taken in. Right?”

He turns to Bruce once again, but the cowl is still down, and while Dick is getting better at it, he still has trouble reading the visible half of Bruce’ face for any emotion. For some reason, it seems especially hard now.

After a moment, Bruce inhales deeply through his nose and peels off the cowl, and Dick can’t help but flinch this time. Because—it’s Bruce, but it’s _not._ He’s older and broader and the hidden twinkle of kindness Dick used to be able to find isn’t there anymore. This is someone else with Bruce’s voice and personality, and Dick thinks that if they weren’t in the Batmbile right now, he would probably be half a block away by now.

“Dick,” Bruce says, and it’s tired. “There’s a lot that we need to tell you, but I don’t think now is the best time.”

“No.” Dick’s stubborn on a good day, and there’s no way he’s letting _this_ go without a fight “Why is this guy—” he nods to the stranger “—saying he was Robin? _I’m_ Robin.”

“Not now,” Bruce repeats.

“But—”

_“Dick.”_

Dick wants to shrink away. But Bruce’s hands are still holding him in place as the stranger weaves the car down the long winding road to the entrance to the Cave. Bruce is looking at Dick, swaddled in a stranger’s jacket, like it’s been such a long time since he’s seen him, and it doesn’t make any _sense._

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” Dick says, just because he doesn’t know what else he’d supposed to think, and the anger’s back full force. “Why aren’t you telling me that he’s lying? Are you trying to replace me? Are you firing me again?”

_“Again?”_

The stranger jolts in his set, slamming on the breaks just as they make it to the Batmobile’s parking spot—and it probably would have been fine if Dick had been wearing a seat belt, but he’s still sitting in Bruce’s lap, curled up in a leather jacket without his own hands to stabilize him, so he jolts forward with the momentum, too. Bruce barely pulls Dick away from the dashboard in time to keep him from getting a concussion.

“It wasn’t about Two-Face,” Bruce says once Dick is pulled back into Bruce’s hold, and Dick tenses at the use of past tense. _Wasn’t._ What is that supposed mean? “Trust me, Dick. Firing you for a situation I hadn’t prepared you for wasn’t your fault, and I’m sorry.”

Dick slumps back into Bruce’ comfort. “Then I don’t get it.”

“It’s…complicated.”

“Make it uncomplicated, then,” Dick demands. “Who is _he?_ Why is he saying he was Robin? And why aren’t you _disagreeing?”_

And why is Bruce so _old?_ He looks like he’s agd twenty years in between last night and now, and Dick just doesn’t know what to make of it. At all. Maybe this is all some drug-induced hallucination, or something. It really wouldn’t surprise him at this point.

Maybe fear toxin. His worst fears had been his parents—and then Bruce—falling to their deaths. But ever since Two-Face, he’s had a sort of different fear on his mind.

And yet, everything seems so clear. Bruce’s touch feels so real. He just doesn’t get what’s going on.

“Let’s get you something to wear first,” Bruce says softly. Then he turns to the stranger. “Go upstairs and get some of Damian’s old clothes.”

Dick doesn’t know who Damian is or why he would have clothes upstairs, but apparently the stranger does, because Dick watches him leave without a word. There’s just a glance between Dick and Bruce and he’s gone. Then, it’s just Bruce and Dick alone in the car, and Dick has a sneaking suspicion that Bruce had wanted it this way. Wanted to talk without the stranger interrupting them again.

“What’s going on?” Dick asks in a small voice. “Why was that guy saying all that stuff? And why aren’t I wearing any clothes? _Why do you look so different?”_

Bruce’s expression is grim, but his eyes are honest. “Dick, before we left for patrol, you were twenty-four.” Dick opens his mouth to say something, to _deny it,_ to say _that’s impossible,_ but he can’t get anything out before Bruce is speaking again. “We ran into some trouble. A gang had access to drugs that are able to manipulate age and memory. You were hit with a dart containing the drug.”

“I don’t understand,” Dick says, and he feels empty inside. Blank. Numb. The sense of wrongness takes over, and this—this _can’t_ be happening. Dick doesn’t remember being twenty-four at all. He’s eleven. He’s the Robin to Bruce’s Batman. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s true, Dick,” Bruce says.

And Dick can see it now, kind of. He’s been trained to put clues together since he became Robin, and he sees it all adding up. This _isn’t_ his Bruce. If what he’s saying is true, then this Bruce is thirteen years older than what Dick remembers. And Dick knows that if he’d changed so drastically in just the two years Dick had been living at the manor, then there’s no way he hadn’t changed in six times that long.

But Dick shakes his head violently, backing up into the dashboard to the best of his ability. No matter how many signs are telling Dick that Bruce is _right,_ he won’t accept it. Not yet. Not until he can get this straight in his head.

Because Dick wouldn’t have just _given up_ being Robin. It’s who he is, and Dick would never let it go. Not in a million years. So the stranger has to be lying. _Bruce_ has to be lying.

But Bruce’s eyes are clear, and his gaze is steady. His hand comes up to push Dick’s hair back from his head, and Dick relaxes into the touch. He remembers this touch from when he’d woken up, too. He’d been so sure that this was Bruce, just by his touch. Because Dick _knows_ Bruce. They’re partners. It’s Dick’s job to know.

So Dick slumps, and he decides that, for now, he’ll believe Bruce, and hope that whatever storm comes from it, from losing _thirteen impossible years_ , doesn’t destroy them.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my tumblr at camsthisky.tumblr.com


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